


Eternity

by AJsregrettabledecisions



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Canonical Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24526075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJsregrettabledecisions/pseuds/AJsregrettabledecisions
Summary: Grantaire is an Immortal – a mostly extinct race who existed and thrived millennia ago. He is a cynic, and a drunkard, and regularly kills himself for the fun of it. As much as he wants to die, he is not yet ready, so as is the curse of his people, he can die, but will not stay dead.With the thousands of years, millions of minutes, and countless seconds he has lived, he has waited for his Reason, his Reason being the thing that drives him to end, to accept death, to move on.He thinks Enjolras could be it.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First fic. Unbeta'd, please (gently) let me know about any typos/nonsensical bits in the comments. CW: suicide reference and canon grade violence. Enjoy! Please leave a review or kudos if you like it.

Grantaire stood staring in the cracked mirror in his tiny flat in the attic of a lodging house, gaze traversing his bare form. Bruises had blossomed across his body, raw and aching from the fight he had landed himself in the night before. Harsh words and strong drink often did this to him, the bruises so familiar in colour they felt more like _him_ than his own face did.

He sighed, stepping away and fetching some rumpled clothes. He needed to wash soon, he noted absentmindedly.

If he wanted to, Grantaire could purge the bruises from his skin – reach out and feel each cell, each part of his body, and adjust it. Shifting the matter, healing it or purging it from his body. To avoid yet another painful death, he would need to soon. Grantaire could feel the beginning of a growth in his lung, a blackness born from his decades of smoking toxic pipes and inhaling coal fumes from his labour work. He had died from similar before, and would prefer to avoid it if possible.

The closest bottle to him was almost empty, but it would do. He swigged stiffly, not nearly intoxicated enough to face Les Amis at the Musain. Nay, Les Amis he could see – Enjolras he could not.

His Apollo, a golden god amongst mortal men, preaching of an Elysium he sought to build for his flawed followers, a world where justice and equity reigned, under the hands of a fair and equal parliament. An Eden where the flowers bloomed equality, and the grass grew lush with peace, and mankind could eat of the tree of knowledge without persecution.

An impossible ideal, though Grantaire did not know if Enjolras knew that or not. Perhaps he did, and simply wished to start a change that may move them closer, if not land them there. Or perhaps he wanted to give hope to those who quietly knew they would never live better than in the filth and starvation they now faced.

With all his years behind him, and likely countless more to come, Grantaire could not find it in himself to be hopeful for the future. He had walked countless lands, spoken thousands of tongues, and lived in too many cultures, and the only thing he had taken from it all was that humanity – flawed, violent, desperate humanity – was not worth the air it breathed, and certainly not worth saving.

For all his power and this cynical belief, Grantaire did not see himself above the humans. No, he was no better or worse for his immortality – his ageless body, constant healing, and faultless memory. Perhaps some would see them as gifts, but all Grantaire could think of them was as curses. Useful, yes, but he was cursed all the same.

When he focused, taking the time to sift back through his life, Grantaire could remember his first moment of sentience. The all-encompassing warmth, the dull sounds that filtered through, and, eventually, the faintest impression of light.

He could remember his first breaths, and the first sounds he heard, and the moment his eyes stung from the light as he gazed upon his mother. She had been beautiful – she still was, rendered in impeccable detail in his mind.

But she had found her Reason, and she had left, smiling at him as she closed her eyes and drew her last breath.

With that last morbid thought, Grantaire forced his musings to an end. He drained the last of his bottle as he stepped inside their café, immediately requesting a new one to take with him before he took himself upstairs and had to face the one man that haunted his every moment.

His mother had died for the love of a mortal. Perhaps, just maybe, love would be the same salvation for him.

OoOoO

Grantaire’s purpose in attending their revolutionary meetings had yet to be revealed. Enjolras had noted him on the man’s first appearance, struggling not to pause in his sentence as he stumbled in. He was clearly drunk, yet did not cause much fuss beyond seeking a chair and settling at the back of the room. Since that fateful day, he had well and truly established his place in Les Amis: their cynic, and their planner.

The man lacked faith, ambition, hope, or drive, and instead found his purpose in the call of the bottle. He was a drunkard, and while apparently educated, he cared little to use it. He spent his time while sober painting, which, while admirable, meant little when he did not wish to display or share his work. Often he boxed, fighting in illegal dens, and frequently in the streets when his words and his drink turned him astray.

He worked at the docks, that much they knew, and spent his days as a labourer there. Grantaire’s body was lithe muscle, not an ounce of spare skin. He had marked himself with intricate tattoos, a process Enjolras knew to be painful and slow, in countless styles that had no reason or rhyme. Smoking tobacco was not an uncommon habit, but one he indulged frequently. Notably, he had a strong constitution, for illness never took him and injury never kept him down.

For all they knew of his character, none could say they knew much of the man beyond that. Enjolras, especially, was curious – any question to his origins had Grantaire stiffening and turning away. Any questions to the cause of the man’s cynicism and combative nature only procured a secretive smile, often accompanied by, “Wouldn’t you like to know, my friend.”

Enjolras enjoyed his company, despite their conflicting views and polarised motivations. Grantaire provided a refreshing breath of air amongst the sometimes blind faith of the rest of Les Amis. Not to mention his arguments were always sound and in depth, clearly having researched the characters and places Enjolras often brought up.

When mentions of protests arose, Grantaire was always quick to assess their proposed locations. He knew the city like no other person Enjolras had met, knowing countless back alleys and hidey holes and sewers and catacomb accesses, as though he had stood by and examined each stone of the city before it was placed. It was curious, given Grantaire had claimed to only of come to France and Paris some handful of years before.

As confounding as it was, Grantaire’s knowledge was useful. The man was a font of information, liberally sharing its gifts. He could quote guard schedules, and locations, and even so far as the names of many of them. He could name every street and where it led with ease, and often who lived on it and where and with who. It was as though he was as much a part of the city as its filthy streets.

It was one of those nights – a night of planning, of scouring maps, of carefully crafting words to inspire and enrage. Grantaire was hunched over a map with Combeferre, lightly tracing lines to detail where and how and why.

_Why_. What an important question. Why did the cynic, the man who hated humanity, the man who cursed the sun and the stars and the sky for enabling life they were indifferent to – why did he help them? The words slipped from his mouth before he could stop them.

“Why, Grantaire?”

“Because if you start over here, the guards may come over through this street. It’ll bottle neck us trying to get out here, and we can’t risk them firing on us.”

“No, Grantaire. Not the protest. Not _just_ the protest, that is. Why are you here? Why do you help us? You with no hope for humanity, no hope for France, and yet you work alongside us as though you truly care. Why?”

Combeferre took the initiative to gather the last of Les Amis, those who had stayed to iron out the plans, and escort them out. He quietly wrapped up their plans, storing them under the floorboards before taking his leave.

Grantaire sat back in his chair, sighing heavily. He glanced about, most likely for a bottle, and when he could not find one, he sighed once more. Enjolras stared back evenly as Grantaire’s eyes searched his face.

For the first time, Enjolras saw a weariness in Grantaire. It seemed to seep up, a weight Enjolras had never before noticed, draining the colour from the man’s face and forcing his shoulders to slump.

“I am old, Enjolras, older than I seem. I have been many places and seen many things and I am certain that your movement, while it may cause ripples, will never be the wave you want. But I cannot begrudge a man his passion.”

“That does not explain why you are here, Grantaire. Why you are helping. If anything it suggests you should be doing the opposite.”

The silence stretched, Grantaire frowning as he gathered his thoughts.

“I suppose that I have no love of the cause. But that does not mean I have no love of the people within it.”

Enjolras opened to his mouth – to say what, he was not sure. He closed it once more, face likely a storm of emotions as he struggled to find what to say. Grantaire smiled a tired, wry smile, eyes unwavering.

“Love is not worth it, for me especially, Apollo,” he stated cryptically. “But that does not mean I would not travel to the ends of the earth, or to Hell and back, or to the grave, for that which captures me. It is no skin off my back to aid your revolution, whether I believe in it or not. I am doing it for my friends, not the cause. That is why I am here, Enjolras. And that is why I will stay until we are all dead or the King’s head is in a basket.”

OoOoO

The protest had started well enough, their shouts in the street gathering attention quickly. The small fire by the docks – rigged by Grantaire beside the boat yard he worked at – had captured the focus of the guards, while they denounced the King and his monarchy in the streets. Enjolras stood atop a box on the steps of a fountain, crying out against the pain and suffering they all faced.

To either side, Combeferre and Courfeyrac wove the flags of the revolution. Their cries of _No more!_ filled the air, the quickly amassing crowd becoming equally enthralled and passionate.

Until the guards came. In the distance, they could still see the smoke, so perhaps they had dispatched a squadron just to disperse the crowd and eliminate the revolutionaries, while others handled the fire. Perhaps they abandoned the fire, because fear of riots was greater than a ship yard being damaged. No matter – their words had been heard well enough.

As planned, they ducked low and ran, taking a back alley Grantaire had marked and Bahorel had cleared earlier that morning. Up and over a small fence, through a back door – the shouts of the guards close behind them. Partway through the run they encountered Grantaire, who’s manic grin set them all smiling, footsteps joining theirs as they sprinted through the streets.

Unexpectedly, however, a second squadron had emerged, right on the path they had hoped to take. One look at the revolutionaries, sweating and panting and bearing the colours of freedom, had the squadron barrelling towards them, the others audible behind them.

“This way!” Grantaire yelled, diving into a house and sprinting up the stairs. They followed blindly, trusting him implicitly to not lead them astray. He had kicked out a window shutter upstairs, one leg out and one in, helping to pull his friends through and out onto the roof. They followed him and he led them across, jumping onto another roof and sliding down the slant to move through another window.

A woman screeched inside, and Enjolras spared her a glance as they raced through the house and out the door. She was barely dressed, clearly scandalised, and Enjolras had looked long enough to see Grantaire clasp her hand, proclaimed a profuse apology, kiss it, and then run once more. He huffed a laugh, increasing his pace as Grantaire caught up.

Outside, Grantaire nodded for them to follow him down an alley, where he kicked off a grate and they all slipped inside, the fetid stench of the catacombs greeting them. They trudged quietly behind him, all trying to gain their breath amongst the foul smell, as the shouts in the street echoed down to them. Nigh on a half hour of walking led them to a grate that Grantaire shifted easily, heaving himself out and pulling them all out one after the other.

They were a short walk from a bathhouse, and an even shorter one to Grantaire’s small abode, in a quiet alley where a man smoking a pipe averted his gaze.

“R, I swear, it is inhuman that you know and remember these paths so well. How do you do it?” Bahorel sighed, shaking himself slightly. The man in question laughed, a gleam in his eye that he often got when his all-knowing nature was called it to question.

“If I shared my secrets, you’d have no need for me. Now, I, for one, would very much like a bath, as the grime of the catacombs does not come off with just a scrub in a bucket. Care to join me?”

OoOoO

They had been on the steps of the people’s bank, the crowd quickly growing, hundreds of faces already looking at them. Grantaire, for once, was by his side, bearing a flag with an expression that almost spoke of pride on his face. When the guards had turned the corner, Enjolras turned to move, but the shot rang out long before anyone expected it to.

Enjolras felt a heavy weight shove him, covering him, but even through it he felt the impact. The jolt, and shudder, as whoever had covered him had a bullet tear through them. Enjolras turned, Grantaire’s pained expression coming into view.

_“Run_ ,” Grantaire commanded, clenching tightly on the sleeve of Enjolras’s jacket. He did as instructed, heart thundering as he glanced at the quickly growing stain of _red_ on Grantaire’s jacket. Sweat gleamed on his face, teeth gritted against the pain. Enjolras clutched his arm tightly, pulling him along as he started to lag, his own face white with fear.

They meet up with the others as they run, and Joly’s expression when he sees the blood is one of abstract terror and despair.

_No_ , Enjolras thought. _I can’t lose him._

Grantaire saw the rifleman stop just around the corner, weapon raising quickly and his sight locked on Enjolras. He couldn’t even think – he just _moved_ , shoving Enjolras and then pulling himself around the man, closing over him to protect him. The gunshot rang clear, and Grantaire prayed it wouldn’t hit Enjolras, his Apollo, his love.

Instead, the bullet tore into Grantaire’s back. He was thankful it did not tear through him and into Enjolras, but he gasped and shuddered none the less as his body was torn open by the lead. The pain filtered through slowly, his mind buzzing and humming, brain clouded. He looked down to Enjolras, who had turned to look at him with horror.

_Run_ , he thought. He must have said it aloud, because Enjolras seized his hand and sprinted, desperately trying to get them both out as more bullets echoed, the crowd screaming and frantically dispersing.

Grantaire could feel it, the bullet, lodged in one of his ribs. It had nicked part of his heart and had torn straight through a lung. The skin had been forced apart, burnt and split, by the bullet. He could feel the flesh sizzling, tissue leaking blood, cells emanating an odd mixture of pain and tingling, like he had not moved for a while and part of him had begun to _buzz_ from lack of use.

The searing, intense pain alleviated quickly, as was his body’s nature, but a dull ache and a hot burning replaced it. He struggled to breathe, between the damage to his lung and the running. Black spots danced across his vision as he stumbled.

He was distantly aware of meeting with the others, continuing to run with the support of Enjolras to one side and Joly to the other. If he could stop, sit still or lie down, block out the noise and movement, he would be able to heal himself. It would take perhaps a couple of hours, but he’d be able to stop the damage that seemed likely to kill him in minutes.

He’d focus on the lung, first, as the heart would only kill him under pressure if it was left to bleed for too long. Shift the lead ball out, and seal up the lung, draining the blood back out through the hole. He’d correct the damaged rib, so it stopped cutting into the lung, then he’d inflate it again, forcing air into it. Then heal the last of the surface abrasions, and move onto the heart.

But he didn’t have a couple of hours, or the stillness and energy he needed. He was running, and he could feel his breath become tighter and tighter, and Grantaire realised this was it. He’d likely collapse before they reached their safe haven, and either be carried or abandoned. Unconscious, his body would go into overdrive to try and heal him, but after the run he would be too exhausted, and would lack the energy to heal enough to keep him alive.

A few hours after collapsing, he would die. A few hours after that, he may wake up again.

Grantaire glanced at Enjolras, eyes searching the man’s worried face. He saw terror there, fear for his friend dying, and anger, anger that Grantaire would die. And… love. Love, the source of such intense fear and anger, all aimed at Grantaire.

He tried to smile at Enjolras, but his face was slow to respond. He wasn’t sure if he managed it. His eyes rolled back and he fell.

Enjolras had glanced back to Grantaire, who was smiling such a gentle smile, and his heart seized as the man fell, collapsing onto the ground. Bahorel had all but picked him up, running with him until they made the final steps to Joly’s house. They had changed directions part way, knowing they would need their would-be doctor’s full kit.

There, they had stripped the dining table and laid Grantaire face down. The man was still breathing heavy, laboured breaths, and Joly had made quick work of examining the wound. He dug the bullet out, poking and prodding and swiping at bubbling blood, but had stopped.

“What now? Why have you stopped?” Enjolras demanded, quaking.

“The bullet… It has pierced both his lung and his heart. Short of a miracle, Grantaire will not make it. I am sorry, Enjolras. I am so, so, sorry, but these… these are his final hours.”

Enjolras had collapsed. Faintly, he could hear someone weeping along with him. Courfeyrac, perhaps, or maybe young and new Marius. Maybe both, for Enjolras knew he was not alone in shedding tears.

Grantaire, their wonderful, cynical, genius, drunkard – laying on a table, bleeding sluggishly, and bearing his last breaths.

_For Enjolras_. The man had seen the bullet and had taken it for him – given his own life for him. Without thought, without hesitation. Faintly, Enjolras recalls when Grantaire once said he would go to the grave for the people he loved. He had thought it was an exaggeration.

“Stitch the wound. Like you would if it weren’t fatal. Treat it as though it isn’t. Grantaire is… He is strong, stronger than we give him credit for. Do what we can to aid, and pray that he pulls through once again.”

The order came from Jehan, a grim expression on the man’s face. And yet… Enjolras could see something gleaming in his eye, a kind of hopefulness that Enjolras could not comprehend the source of. Joly stared at the man as equally dumfounded as Enjolras.

“It couldn’t hurt to try. Grantaire has escaped death before, perhaps with our aid, he will again this time,” Feuilly comments.

Joly nods and sets to work, painstakingly cleaning and stitching the wound.

When all is done, they settle in to wait, a heavy silence weighing on them.

Enjolras looks to his left, where he has become so used to Grantaire sitting, and tries to imagine the place being so _empty_ forever. He cannot stand it.

Grantaire, when he loses consciousness, tends to become acutely aware of his body. He loses all touch with the outside world, but he has his own mind and his body to make up for that.

He drifts, now, body still aching dully from the bullet wound. He can feel himself approaching death with each moment, no matter how insistently the gentle tugs at the wound try to stave it off. Clearly someone was trying to heal him, not realising it was futile. It was likely Joly, the closest to a doctor Les Amis had. Maybe Combeferre would be assisting.

Grantaire thought over his friends, each moment, each interaction, all carefully documented in his mind, his damned species not letting him forget anything about them. He thought of Enjolras, with his passion and fire, with his golden hair and voice that command and inspired.

He loved that man. Grantaire loved Enjolras with every fibre of his being, every ounce of his person. At this point, Grantaire could safely say he _lived_ for Enjolras, lived to be by his side.

He could not help but wonder if that meant he could die for him. By principle, obviously the answer was yes, because that was what he was doing in that moment. Dying so Enjolras did not. But Grantaire cared more about whether loving Enjolras was enough to be his Reason.

Could this be it? Would his millennia of misery finally end? Was this the final time he would die?

Grantaire wished it would be as much as he wished it wouldn’t. In case it was, though, he thought of Enjolras. Thought of his beauty, his generosity. His drive and ambition alongside with his gentleness and care. His voice that could inspire and lead, and his hands with the callouses that served to remind Grantaire that Enjolras was only human, despite his godliness.

As his mind drifted out, succumbing to the blankness and _ceasing_ of death, the last thought on Grantaire’s mind was Enjolras.

They had all fallen to sleep at some point, sprawled throughout Joly’s dining space. Enjolras had woken with a start, eyes shifting open to see Jehan standing over Grantaire, fingers to his pulse. He had tears running down his face, fingers moving to grip Grantaire’s wrist, and Enjolras did not want to see anymore.

He tried to close his eyes, to return to sleep and forget, but he couldn’t help but watch as Jehan leant over, tears streaming, clutching the ruins of Grantaire’s shirt.

“Prove me right, you fool. You bastard. Come back, come back to us,” he whispered. A romantic as ever, Enjolras thought despairingly. He turned away, covering his ears and forcing his eyes shut, not wanting to hear the desperate pleas and hoping to wait a little longer before he had to face the fact that Grantaire was –

Not yet, Enjolras thought. _Not yet._

The next morning, Enjolras woke to Joly staring at Grantaire with incredulity, eyeing his body. No – no, that wasn’t, that was –

Enjolras rushed to Grantaire’s side, staring at Grantaire as well. His chest rose with deep, even breaths, eyes fluttering slightly. His back wound had continued to bleed through the night, and there was a small puddle of blood dripping from the table to the floor, yet Grantaire lay breathing. Still, eyes shut, but _breathing_.

Had he dreamt it, last night? Those moments with Jehan? He could not bring himself to care, for Grantaire was there, breathing, alive.

A month later, when Grantaire was somehow mostly healed, he offered no explanation other than to say, “It’s my parents. They must be watching out for me.” He had laughed immediately after, as though it was some hilarious joke, and had shut down anyone’s questions about it. Eventually, he had snapped, saying they should be grateful he had lived, before forbidding them from mentioning it again.

That night, Enjolras returned to Grantaire’s with him, and spent the night swearing his gratitude in words and touches.

From then on, they were nigh inseparable, Grantaire assuming the position of almost a war planner, constantly designing their assaults of words and actions as their revolution culminated. With Grantaire by his side, Enjolras was sure they would see the world transformed.

OoOoO

The barricade had failed, and Enjolras lay bleeding. He was riddled with bullets, he was sure of it. Above him, Grantaire cradled him, weeping and murmuring.

“Do not cry, Grantaire, I will see you in Heaven, along with the rest of Les Amis, yes?” Enjolras smiled, feeling blood trickle from his body. The pain was long gone, replaced by a calm of a man knowing his death was nigh. It reminded him, abstractly, of the night they thought Grantaire would die, when Grantaire had smiled at him before collapsing.

“No, you bloody fool, I won’t go to Heaven,” Grantaire sobbed, clutching at him. Enjolras cast his gaze to his face, to his neck, to his chest, where –

Oh. Enjolras trailed his fingers along the smattering of bullet holes on Grantaire’s chest. He could see one, straight through his heart, gently forcing the bullet out, and closing behind it.

“You’re an Immortal,” he murmured quietly, as Grantaire released another shudder.

“Yes. And even if I die, even if this – if _you_ – are my Reason, there is no place in Heaven for my kind,” Grantaire replied.

Enjolras smiled at him.

“If there is no place for you there, then I will not go there.” Enjolras wanted to say more, he did, but his tongue was heavy, and his vision was blurring. Grantaire began to call his name, and it filtered through to Enjolras slowly. The name seemed stretched, blurred, like a wet canvas had been smudged.

He tried to clench Grantaire’s hand, to comfort him, to let him know he was with him, that he loved him. Enjolras found he could not feel his own, and with the knowledge that he could not gift one more “I love you” to the man who had loved him so desperately, he died.

Enjolras breathed his last in Grantaire’s arms, the barricade burning around them, France no more free than when they had begun.

Grantaire had felt the life slip away from Enjolras, his body relaxing as his breath ceased. Grantaire wept, wept for the only man he had ever let himself love, and wished he could will his body to cease healing, so that he could join Enjolras, if only for a time.

OoOoO

Grantaire had fled Paris as they cleaned the bodies from the streets. He had brought with him the bodies of those he knew and cared for, knowing that those marked as revolutionaries would otherwise be dumped in an unmarked mass grave.

He had dug their graves himself, laying each one to rest with a quiet prayer. It cost him a pretty penny, but thousands of years of life led to a lot of wealth, so he had commissioned headstones for each, bearing their name and their purpose and the cause they had died for.

Eponine. Musichetta. Gavroche. Combeferre. Jehan. Joly. Lesgle. _Enjolras._

After that, he left France all together, drifting through Europe. He was numb, and as often as he died – as often as he killed himself – it never stuck.

He never hated himself quite as much as when he realised not even Enjolras was enough to be his Reason.

Grantaire came back to France, some years later. He heard Feuilly, one of the few to survive that terrible day, is dying from illness that plagued his aged system. At nearly fifty years old, it was not surprising that his time was coming to an end. Grantaire had only needed to ask once before he was led to the man’s side.

“Grantaire?” he had croaked, gazing at him with the sickness clouding his eyes.

“Hello, old friend,” Grantaire had replied, clasping the hand of his prone form.

“I have died, then, and you are here to move me on,” Feuilly muttered, tossing slightly under his covers. Grantaire chuckled, clenching his free hand as he fought back tears.

“Nothing as grand as that, my friend. I believe if anyone is waiting at the gates, it is Enjolras, bathed in heavenly light and awaiting the rest of us to take our last breaths.”

“You don’t believe in heaven. You were taken by bullets the same as Enjolras and yet you claim you are not dead. How is this so? How is-“

He was cut off by racking cough that shook his frame. A nurse entered, tutting, and requested he leave. With one last squeeze of his hand, Grantaire departed.

Fueilly died that night.

Bahorel, when his time came, took one look at Grantaire and grinned, the sepsis plaguing him from the wound in his side forgotten at once.

“I was right, then. Jehan, too. Musichetta owes me five francs,” the man laughed, bald head gleaming with sweat.

“Oh?” Grantaire replied, pulling up a chair and laying his feet upon the bed, careful of the injury.

“No mortal man – even one with a constitution as legendary as we believed yours – could have survived the wound that day on the steps of the bank. I had always had a feeling there was something _other_ to you. When I find her above, I’ll see to it she pays up. If you ever make it there, I’ll give you a cut.”

They chatted quietly until Bahorel dozed off. When next he woke, the fever had him mad, delirious and calling for those long dead. Grantaire took his leave, knowing fairly his friend would not last the week.

When Marius and Cosette welcomed their first grandchild into the world, Grantaire visited them for the first time since the barricade. Marius still had the limp that was caused by the bullets he took then, and Cosette still had the gleam of wonder at life that she had always had. They had been alarmed, at first, until understanding dawned. He had stayed for tea and to greet the child, and their children that he had never met, before moving on.

He did not make it to Courfeyrac’s deathbed, but made certain he was there for the man’s funeral. He paid to have the gravestone rightly marked, the same assurance he gave to each of Les Amis as they moved on.

Some decade or two shy of one hundred years after the Barricade saw Grantaire in America, the New World, ready for a new start. He wondered if Enjolras would have enjoyed living to see the results of his revolution. If he would have continued to fight, once the king was ousted, and if so what for.

As he had countless times over his millennia of life, he swore not to grow close to anyone again, to once more avoid the agony of mortal deaths. What they called the Great War had ended, and the society was peaking, drinking and dancing and loving and living was a defining feature of the lifestyle.

He settled in a quaint home a distance out of New York City, content to dabble in the riches of society without tying himself to the people.

At night, he dreamed of golden hair, and rich blue eyes, and red, red, _red_.

He wondered if there were any others left – other Immortals. Perhaps there wasn’t, and he was damned to dream and dream of the lives he had lived and the mortals he had loved, the last torch bearer to keep the memory of his people alive.

In the day, he would paint his dreams. At night, he would live them. And in every moment, conscious or otherwise, he felt the bone deep craving for the one that he wanted to be his Reason.

It was never enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue, so things aren't quite so dismal.

Epilogue

Grantaire sat, sipping a coffee, out the front of a small café in Paris. He was sketching the scenery idly, remembering sitting in this very spot not quite two hundred years ago, sketching the same view and its very different features.

His cell pinged, and he ignored it, content in his bubble as he drew. He had done it many times – sat in the café that had replaced the Musain over the decades, drawing how the streets of Paris had changed. He had a folder at home dedicated to his renderings, in countless styles and countless decades.

He glanced up, focusing on a detail of a window arch, when a flash of vibrant red and lush gold caught his eye. Grantaire followed it, seeing a man talking to his friends, back turned to Grantaire. He had yellow-blond hair, almost the colour of straw, but it had the right kind of curl, and it shone brightly in the sun. The red of his shirt was a few shades off, but still, it was close enough.

But when the man turned, Grantaire sighed, the face foreign and unpleasant. The nose wrong and the brows wrong and the mouth wrong and – wrong.

 _Enjolras is dead_ , he reminded himself, sighing as he returned to his sketch. A smaller, faintly hopeful part of his mind whispered back, _The dead don’t always stay that way_. He’d had this argument with himself hundreds of times throughout his years.

He’d seen people be reborn, before. Almost exactly the same, born into a new generation. Sometimes they remembered their past lives, and sometimes they didn’t. His hope was vain, he knew it. No soul could want _him_ enough to return to the earth.

Perhaps Enjolras would be back, someday. When a cause was righteous enough to summon him back. Given France now had a (somewhat) functioning parliament, had just legalised gay marriage, was working on more rights issues, and was generally – while not a utopia – still a leader of fair living, maybe he wouldn’t come back. Wouldn’t need to.

Maybe he’d come back in another nation, another race, to fight the same fight with his burning eyes and raging voice.

Grantaire returned to his sketch. He flicked the page back, looking at the sketch he had done last night. It was the same stretch of street, simply as it had been so many years ago. As always, he could remember it in stunning detail, no cracks in his mind for anything to slip through, and no doors he could lock the memories behind.

It was some hours later, when the café began to close, that Grantaire packed up his supplies and began the short walk back to his apartment. He glanced at his phone, seeing a text from a co-worker requesting a shift change, and began a quick reply. As he turned a corner, however, he collided with someone, stumbling back a bit as the other person landed quite squarely on their rear.

Grantaire looked down to apologise, to help them up, to see if they were okay, but when they locked eyes, his heart lurched.

Enjolras stared up at him – and it was certainly him. Just as vibrant, just as golden. He helped himself to his feet as Grantaire stood gaping.

“Apollo,” Grantaire whispered. The man smiled, eyes crinkling.

“Grantaire.”

Grantaire felt something _shift_ , a subtle twitch inside him, each of his cells being tapped by a pulse that ran through his body. He shuddered at both his name and the sensation, and realised –

This was it. His Reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wrote this fic years ago, but never had a tumblr or ao3 or anything to post it on. Now have it, and have the guts for it. Hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> This didn't actually make it into the fic, but was something that came into my head during writing of it and helped fuel me to finish it:
> 
> "If he is Arthur, golden and eternal, blessed to be reborn again and again as Camelot needs him, then I am content to be his Merlin, damned to wait for eternity until he is no longer needed, and I am let to rest beside him."
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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